


louder than sirens, louder than bells

by icannotlivewithoutmysoul



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icannotlivewithoutmysoul/pseuds/icannotlivewithoutmysoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He always seemed to have an array of caution signs on him, neatly labelling him as unapproachable. Auror. Adult. Off limits." In which Kingsley and Hermione find some common ground after the war. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	louder than sirens, louder than bells

**Author's Note:**

> For Betty. 
> 
> Merry Christmas my friend! Thank you for being your own fabulous self and for putting up with me and my unreliable emailing habits. Think of it as a Christmas present and a very belated birthday gift. I adore you and I thank my lucky stars for you every day.

She first notices him when he drops by the Burrow to pick them up on the night they’re supposed to fetch Harry from the Dursleys’. She’s met him before, of course, and developed a healthy sense of respect and admiration for his competence and kindness. But she was very young, not yet fifteen the first time, and he always seemed to have an array of caution signs on him, neatly labelling him as unapproachable. _Auror._   _Adult_. _Off limits_.

He’s still an adult and he’s still an Auror. Hermione knows full well he’s still off limits. But now, two months shy of her eighteenth birthday, her gaze is just adult enough to admire him in an entirely different manner.

And that, she decides as she studies him in what she dearly hopes is a subtle way, is a piece of information she’ll keep all to herself.

 

“Miss Granger with Kingsley, again by Thestral –”

Hermione relaxes. She was and continues to be willing to risk her life for Harry, but she’d rather not do it on top of a broomstick. She returns Kingsley’s smile with one of her own, cataloguing the small flutter in her belly and filing it away for further examination.

He may be off limits, but her mind remains her own, and she’s intrigued by this swift, sudden surge of attraction that is an altogether new experience for her.

_Focus, Hermione. Poor timing all around._

She turns her mind back to the topic at hand – her best friend’s survival – and refuses to be distracted even as Kingsley helps her on to the back of the Thestral.

Some back corner of her brain, however, notes the feel of his hand. Large, firm and strong, it makes her feel safe.

 

The flight ends up being a lot more eventful than either one of them imagined. As soon as the circle of Harrys parts, five Death Eaters shoot after them in pursuit. Kingsley flies the Thestral faster and higher in response.

“Hold on!” He shouts, approving of Hermione’s tighter hold on his waist as he soars and swoops in the direction of his house.

“How did they know we would be leaving tonight?” She yells over the sound of the wind and the screams of the Death Eaters, voicing his own thoughts exactly.

Kingsley doesn’t answer. His mind is focused completely on the matter at hand. He makes a slashing motion with his wand, cursing one of their persecutors, throwing another off his broom and dodging a Killing Curse by half an inch.

It’s only when he wills his mind to stop and take notice of his surroundings that he realizes Hermione is holding him one-armed.

“What the hell do you think you’re _doing_? Hold on to me!”

“I’m trying to help!” She shouts back, flicking her wand and Stupefying a lone Death Eater inching closer.

“Getting yourself killed isn’t helping! Hold on before we–” His words die in a throat suddenly depleted of all moisture.

Voldemort is flying towards them, which would be a chilling sight in and of itself. But _he’s not using a broom_. He’s not using a thing but his own dark, terrible magic. Even as a part of him prepares to die, Kingsley readies his wand. He’s not going down, and he’s damn well not abandoning his charge, without a good bloody fight.

But Voldemort pauses, seems to listen for a moment, and turns back without a word. The two men in black cloaks soar after him on their brooms.

“Why –”

He doesn’t need to be a Legilimens to know what Hermione’s about to ask. “I don’t know. Hold on tight. We’re about to land.”

 

She doesn’t know what to expect when she walks into his house – perhaps a messy bachelor’s abode – but she’s pleasantly surprised by what she finds. The living-room is decorated with pale green walls and dark wooden furniture. Books line several shelves above the hearth, in which a fire burns steadily. A rug covers part of the hardwood floor, and is covered in turn by a large, cosy leather couch a deeper shade of green than the walls.

Hermione decides that Kingsley’s house suits him perfectly.

“Well.” Hermione begins. “That was…”

Kingsley lets out a half-laugh. “Yeah. It was.”

“Where’s the Portkey?”

“In my studio,” he answers, taking hold of her wrist and tugging. “Come on. We’re late.”

She nods, then frowns down at the sticky warmth on her hand. A quick look has her muffling a shriek. “Kingsley! You’re bleeding!”

He looks down blankly. One of the sleeves of his blue robes is drenched in blood. “So I am,” he agrees wearily, then hisses out a breath when she quickly grabs his arm and pushes up his sleeve.

“Oh god,” retrieving her wand from her pocket, Hermione points it at the deep, still bleeding gash on his forearm. She mutters a quick healing charm, her breath rushing out in horror when he winces. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

 “No. The bloody Death Eaters hold that little honour. You helped – even if it feels like you poured Firewhisky into the injury before healing it. I feel better, though, so it’s hard to complain.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I– this is the first time I’ve–” She stops herself, flushing.

He stares at her. Her – well, Harry’s – brow is furrowed guiltily. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry! I just– well, I read it in a book this summer, you see, making preparations for, for any occasion that requires it.”

He catches her slip, knows that she’s planning something. But he puts it aside for now. “You cast a spell you’ve never done before on an injured man? Without bothering to, I don’t know, _ask what his opinion on the matter might be_?”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says in a small voice. “You’re absolutely right. I should’ve asked. I just, well, I was worried and I reacted. It’s no excuse,” she adds quickly when he opens his mouth. “I was out of line. It won’t happen again.”

Kingsley stares. Then he stares some more. Finally he laughs, resting a shoulder against the wall as all the tension of the previous hour catches up to him and drains the strength from his limbs. “She read it in a book. Hell. I don’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed. Let’s go. We’re _really_ late now.”

 

She doesn’t see him again until the battle of Hogwarts. They’re on fairly equal ground now, both sweaty and bloody and desperately fighting to survive, but there are bigger things on her mind at the moment than an attractive man with broad shoulders and a soothing voice.

She doesn’t dwell on the overwhelming rush of relief she feels when she sees him – barely – cast a Shield Charm between him and the red light slashing from Avery’s wand. Instead, she rushes to his side and helps stall the Death Eater long enough for Kingsley to incapacitate him.

He grips her arm quickly in gratitude and moves on to duel Travers.

 

Their paths cross frequently after the battle. There are funerals to attend, memorials to plan and a society to rebuild. She watches him, and it shames her. People have fallen, friends are dead, and yet here she is, unable to tear her gaze away from a man who only ever looks back to acknowledge her in passing. It’s wrong. She has no business thinking about him that way.

Hermione tries to convince herself even as her eyes follow him.

 

“So… I spoke with Kingsley,” Harry says, effectively putting a halt to Ron and Hermione’s bickering.

Hermione pauses mid-tirade. “You did? When?”

“Just this morning.”

“What did you two talk about?” Ron wants to know, reaching out to snatch a crisp from a plate on the table.

It’s been a week since Harry defeated Voldemort, and the wizarding world is still in uproar. Reconstruction has only just begun. The innocent in Azkaban have been released, Hogwarts is being fixed under Professor McGonagall’s careful scrutiny and Kingsley has ordered an extensive survey of all Ministry officials. Harry barely has a moment of peace – owls arrive at all times, the press doesn’t give him a moment’s rest and setting foot outside of the Burrow without heavy disguise is all but impossible. So Harry, Ron and Hermione eventually decided to seek respite in a Muggle café.

“I asked him if I could join the Auror Academy when it starts back up in September, despite not having sat the N.E.W.Ts.”

Hermione lets out a quiet breath. She had a feeling this might be coming. “What did he say?”

“He said no.” She tries to think of a way to comfort him until he stuns her with the quick grin on his face. “Because he thinks he can pull strings and have me join the advanced program starting in two weeks.”

A part of her lights up. Another, a selfish one she’d rather not admit to, feels disappointed that he won’t be there with her when she begins her seventh year. “That’s wonderful. I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah, me too,” Ron says, though he seems torn between conflicting emotions.

Hermione thinks she recognizes what those emotions are. She’s seen him wage this internal war between loyalty and jealousy hundreds of times.

“So, mate,” Ron continues, obviously trying to keep his inner conflict in check. “When do you think you’ll have your badge?”

“In a little over eight months.” Then, because Harry can read his friend’s mood perfectly, he grins again. “Pretty much around the same time you’ll have yours, I guess. Kingsley said you’re welcome to join the Advanced Program, too. Both of you,” he adds, turning to Hermione.

“Really?” Ron’s eyes are wide. “He said that?”

“Yeah. We have to turn in our applications before the end of the week.”

“That’s great! We can write them tonight,” he decides suddenly. “We will need recommendation letters, obviously, and health reports. Oh, and…” He trails off when he catches the looks of surprise on both Harry’s and Hermione’s faces, flushing even as he attempts a nonchalant shrug. “I did some reading on the requirements last year. Just for kicks.”

Of course he did, Hermione thinks. Maybe Ron hasn’t been as vocal about it as Harry, but being an Auror has always been one of his biggest dreams, too. “You’ll do great,” she says firmly.

“Well then, that’s–” Ron pauses again, eyes narrowed. “‘ _You_ ’?”

“I thought that might be the case,” Harry gulps down water to help wash down his tuna sandwich. “You’re not joining the program, then?”

“No. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, boys, but I don’t want to be an Auror.”

“Why not?” Ron demands. “You’ve always said you want to do something important. This is important.”

“Well, yes, but it’s not the only important thing there is. I want to go back to Hogwarts, get my N.E.W.Ts. Or, well,” she hesitates. “At least I thought I did.”

The idea of spending nine blissful months stressing over exams instead of the wellbeing of their world should have been a welcome relief. Instead, it’s starting to make her claustrophobic.

Maybe she can’t go back.

Maybe she’s seen too much.

 

Normally, a girl of Hermione’s age wouldn’t be allowed to become so deeply involved with the restoration process, but as one of Harry Potter’s best friends, and a war veteran on her own right, she knows she wields a certain amount of influence. She uses it respectfully but without qualms. If she’s old enough to risk her life for the sake of wizarding society, then she’s also old enough to have a say in its reconstruction. On top of volunteering for different committees, she pulls strings here and there, and secures an internship assisting Janice Spinelli, the Minister’s assistant. All right, most of her duties involve delivering mail and brewing tea, but it’s a foot in the door. She’s linked to the biggest position in wizarding Britain, if only in a roundabout way, and hopes that eventually it’ll help her land a position from where she can make a real, tangible difference.

This is how she and Kingsley come to see each other almost every day.

He’s been persuaded to remain Minister for Magic for a minimum of three months before calling for elections, which she suspects annoys him more than it pleases him. He never complains, never presents a less-than-professional demeanour, but she hears the quiet sighs, sees the flickers of impatience lurking behind his eyes when she delivers his mail with the countless requests for public appearances in it. She wants to help him relax, but she doubts he’d appreciate the intrusion from a girl he still sees as a kid to be protected. So she bites her lip to keep quiet – the word _restrained_ has never been used to describe Hermione Granger, after all – and remains as casually friendly and professional as he does.

She worries, though. He often skips meals, and if the amount of coffee she brings him every day is any indication, his stomach has too many holes in it by now to hold any food he might remember to eat.

So she begins to bring him lunch every day.

 

“There you go,” Hermione says, placing a small box on Janice’s desk. “Roasted chicken and potato salad today.”

“Thank you, sweetie.” Janice smiles up at her. “Without you here, Kingsley and I would probably starve. I don’t know what we’ll do when you go back to Hogwarts next month.”

“It’ll only be for a couple of months,” she reminds her boss. “I’m mostly prepared for most of my N.E.W.T.s already. Professor McGonagall has agreed to let me take an intensive workload so I can graduate earlier.”

“Have you thought about what you’ll do after? Hold that thought,” she says, taking the small sheet of paper that has flown onto her desk and reading it quickly. She rolls her eyes. “Surprise, surprise. There’s an emergency in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I know that Department is undergoing the biggest renovation in the Ministry and they are short-staffed, but there _are_ people working there. Why am I always the one they call when they need to Scourgify their messes?”

“You’re more efficient than anyone else down there?”

“Damn right,” she pushes herself to her feet, casting a longing glance at her untouched lunch. “Be right back.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No, I’ve got this. Go on and feed Kingsley, too. I’m fairly certain he skipped breakfast today. I swear, the man may be the best Minister we’ve had in decades, but he’d waste away if it were up to him.”

“He’s under a lot of stress,” Hermione says, perhaps a tad defensively.

“Well, of course he is. But he won’t be doing anyone any favours by working himself into the ground. See if you can convince him to take a break.”

“Sure, I can do that. Afterwards, maybe I’ll stroll off and share a bowl of ice-cream with Draco Malfoy.”

Janice laughs. “I mean it. He likes you. Besides, he’s less likely to snarl at you than me. Snarling at an old school friend, even if she happens to be your administrative assistant, is one thing. Snarling at the eighteen year old intern is another. Give it a shot, okay?” She asks, before scurrying off to douse whatever fire has been roused this time.

“But, Janice…” Hermione trails off, scowling. Sharing ice-cream with Malfoy, she thinks darkly, would probably be less painful than attempting to convince Kingsley Shacklebolt to do anything he doesn’t want to do.  She briefly considers simply dropping off his lunch, like she does every day, and going back to her tiny desk in the corner of Janice’s office. But–

 _He won’t be doing anyone any favours by working himself into the ground_.

With a despondent sigh, Hermione knocks on the door to Kingsley’s office.

“Come in,” he says absently. He doesn’t bother to look up when she walks in. “Hi, Hermione. Leave that over there, will you? I’ll get to it later.”

She pauses, as much in consideration as to give herself time to settle. The strength of her response to him still takes her by surprise.

“Well, actually,” she says, her voice wavering slightly with nerves. “I was hoping you might eat it now. It’s the first time I’ve made this recipe, you see,” she continues, hurrying on when he looks up in confusion. “I’d like to know how it turned out.”

She tries hard not to wince. As excuses go, that one is rather weak.

Damn it, why didn’t she give herself a few minutes to figure out her approach?

Kingsley is already bent over his paperwork again. “Okay, I’ll let you know.”

“I’d really like to know now.”

He looks up again. One corner of his mouth kicks up. “Janice asked you to make me take a break, didn’t she.”

It’s not a question. Hermione finds herself flushing. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I denied it, would you?”

“Definitely not.”

“Well then.” She smiles, a little sheepishly. “I told her not to get her hopes up.”

Kingsley laughs. The sound reverberates all the way down to her toes. “I’m not a workaholic.”

Her choked burst of laughter is probably ill-advised, all things considered. But, well, she stood up to Fudge when she was fourteen, didn’t she? To Scrimgeour only last year.  And unlike either of them, Kingsley does have a sense of humour. “Sorry,” she manages. “I was…”

“I believe _incredulous_ is the word you’re after.”

“No, no! I just… Well…”

“Incredulous,” he says again. Then he blows out a breath. “What the hell. Five minutes can’t hurt.”

Hermione tries (no, really, she does) to keep the victorious glow off of her smile. Judging from Kingsley’s smirk, however, she’s not certain she succeeded.

She starts to turn around, ready to leave him to his privacy, when he speaks.

“Is there anything you need to do right now or can you take five minutes?”

She’s grateful her back is to him, because the shock she feels has surely sneaked past her barriers and leaped into her eyes. She turns back. “Well, no. Not really.”

He gestures to the chair in front of him. “Have you eaten already?”

“Not yet. I usually do it after I deliver your and Janice’s lunch.”

He picks up his wand. Seconds later, her lunchbox flies through the door.

“Eat,” he orders before diving in. He pauses momentarily, lips twisted in a wry smile. “Oh, and you needn’t worry about the recipe. It turned out just fine.”

 

They fall into the habit of sharing lunch in his office twice, sometimes thrice a week. Janice joins them, which simultaneously crushes Hermione’s desire to spend time alone with Kingsley and serves to relax her enough to be able to carry a conversation with him without stuttering her way through it.

She loves these moments more than any others, save perhaps for her standing Saturday lunch date with Harry and Ron. The dynamic of their relationship shifts into an easy camaraderie that thrills her. There are still walls between them, of course. He remains the Minister for Magic and she remains an intern who’s yet to finish her education. The generational gap still stands. But in these lunch breaks, Hermione can almost believe that they’re not that far off from being friends.

She gets to know him better. She finds out that he loves Quidditch and played Beater when he was at Hogwarts, that he was sorted into Gryffindor and graduated with the second highest marks of his year. She learns that he was friends with Lily Potter – Evans back then –, whom he met on the Hogwarts Express when he was on his way to school for the first time and she was about to enter her third year. She learns that he’s the eldest of three children, that both of his parents died during the first war and that he’s godfather to his sister’s daughter.

His favourite colour is green.

He’s been interested in Muggle technology, particularly computers, since he had to learn his way around them in order to infiltrate the Prime Minister’s office.

Hermione absorbs all this information, eagerly filing it away under appropriate subheadings in her Kingsley Shacklebolt mental records. Every morning, as she gets ready for work, she wonders what she will be filing today.

 

She walks into the Ministry that last morning with a conflicted heart. She’s excited to be off to Hogwarts for a few months, excited to be about to embark on her last year of school, even if it’s to be a short one. Her trunk is packed, her books are neatly piled up on top of it and her school robes are freshly washed. A part of her can’t wait to be on the way. On the other hand, though…

She will miss her job, she thinks wistfully as the hours tick by. The chores, however menial they seemed at the time. The people, especially Janice – and Kingsley.

It’s been nice, being this close to him. Getting to know him better. Whatever she does after Hogwarts – and, being Hermione Granger, she already has several carefully crafted lists – it’s doubtful that she’ll be in a position to spend any time at all with Kingsley Shacklebolt. Even if he decides against keeping his position as Minister for Magic, he will undoubtedly hold a high rank in whatever department he chooses to work at – almost certainly Magical Law Enforcement. Entry-level employees don’t associate with Heads of Departments.

Oh, she’ll see him eventually. They have many friends in common, after all, and there has already been talk of holding trimestral Order meetings to make sure everything continues to work as it should. She’s certain he’ll smile at her, call out a greeting, ask how she’s been.

But it won’t be the same.

The empty portrait frame hung above Janice’s desk is suddenly filled by a breathless tiny wizard holding a pendulum watch. He makes a show of clearing his throat.

“Five thirty, ma’am.”

Time to go. Hermione gathers her things, trying not to think it’s the last time she’ll do so here. She looks up when Janice pokes her head out of Kingsley’s office.

“Hermione?”

“Mmm?”

“Could you come in a moment? There’s something you should see.”

Her mind already coming up with several possible scenarios, none of them good (an accident? A rogue Death Eater threatening Harry?), Hermione walks into the spacious office with windows charmed to display a mountain view.

Her mouth falls open.

Kingsley’s desk has been Transfigured into a table big enough to hold two boxes of pizza, a cooling bottle of elf-made sparkling wine and three crystal glasses. Janice is grinning, a bright pink party hat on her head. Kingsley sits next to her, albeit sans hat, and his smile makes her heart skip a beat.

“Surprise!” Janice says, nearly bouncing on her toes. “Happy last day of work, Hermione.”

Hermione’s grin nearly splits her face. “Oh. Oh wow. Thank you! It was so nice of you to think of it.”

“It was Kingsley’s idea, actually,” Janice says. The only reason Hermione’s jaw doesn’t hit the ground is because she visualizes herself holding it in place with both hands. “Well, the hats are my contribution. He said he’d fire me if I dared to put one on his head.”

Hermione turns to Kingsley, lips twitching when he shifts his weight awkwardly. “This is lovely. Thanks.”

“Yes, well,” Kingsley lifts a shoulder. “It was the least I could do. I’d probably have an ulcer by now if not for your lunches.”

“Let’s eat. Oh,” Janice scowls at the tiny envelope flying through the wall. “Shoot. I knew I should’ve waited until the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was empty. I’ll be right back. Don’t discuss anything interesting while I’m gone.”

Kingsley watches as she runs off. “You know, I’ve known her for over twenty years and I have yet to get used to the speed with which she moves.”

“I seem to recall you moving even faster on several occasions.”

“Even I can be bothered to move fast when my life is at stake,” he counters. “But I don’t fly my way through life every second of every day. Anyway, you might as well sit down. It’ll take her some time.”

She complies, trying not to think about the fact that this is the first time she’s been alone with him in what feels like forever. “I’ll miss this place when I’m at Hogwarts.”

“Have you made any plans for after graduation?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking about applying for an entry-level position at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but that will really depend on how good my N.E.W.Ts marks are.”

“How many will you be taking?”

She rattles off the list.

Kingsley stares. “You’re taking all of those classes _and_ planning an early graduation?”

She doesn’t bother to sigh. She’s well used to this reaction by now. “I am. I’m nearly ready for most of them, anyhow.”

“Well. I don’t suppose you’ll have any problem snatching a job once you’re done. We will miss you around here, though,” his lips curve. “I know my stomach will. I might have to take up cooking.”

“Oh my _god_ , the horror.”

“You don’t know the half of it. My family doesn’t cook. It’s for the greater good, really. Bad things happen when one of us sets foot in a kitchen.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Honestly, they do. My mother attempted spaghetti once,” he gives a dramatic shudder. “None of us was ever quite the same again.”

“You’re telling me that nobody – as in, _nobody_ – in your family can cook?”

“She finally catches on,” he says with a quick smirk. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I’m saying. Well, except for my sister Rowena. She can cook some things without risk of poisoning, demolishing or gutting. Speculation ran rampant in the Shacklebolt household when _that_ little fact became apparent.”

“Kingsley.”

“No, really. What was going on? Why was this unprecedented event taking place? Theories were hatched. Was Rowena a changeling? A fairy sent to us from the gods out of generosity and pity? Was that cherubic smile of hers a mere front to disguise the rotten heart of a girl who’d made a deal with the devil in exchange for decent cooking skills?” He blows out a breath. “We were thrown off the loop for months.”

Hermione only shakes her head. It’s hard to speak through the laughter.

Kingsley shoots her a pitiful look. “Laugh all you want. But you should know that if I blow up the Ministry in my futile attempts to make something that passes for food, the blame will lie with you.”

She recovers enough to choke out a reply. “Let us hope it doesn’t keep me awake at night.”

 

She has missed Hogwarts. Seeing the castle for the first time since the re-inauguration ceremony and knowing that she’ll be sleeping in her dormitory once again is almost enough to bring sentimental tears to her eyes.

She catches up fast. Cramming an entire year worth of material into three and a half months should have seemed daunting. Instead, Hermione is having the time of her life.

The professors are invariably delighted to see her. Professor Slughorn has already deemed her his star pupil, Professor McGonagall agrees to assist her in the beginning stages of her Animagus research – she tells Hermione she’s no doubt she will be ready to attempt the transformation before her twentieth birthday – and, after _Arithmancy Today_ publishes Hermione’s essay “When Words and Numbers Collide: Hidden Messages in _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ ”, Professor Vector invites her to join the research team she directs.

She spends time with Ginny and Luna and Neville. She keeps in touch with Harry and Ron, of course, although all three of them are so busy that they tend to fall unconscious the second they hit their respective beds. She studies career pamphlets and mails off job applications.

Her days are too packed with activities to give Kingsley much thought. At night, she’s almost always lost to the world. He does pop up in her mind once or twice a week, though – when a story concerning him is printed in the _Daily Prophet_ , when Harry tells her that Kingsley has congratulated him on his Undetectable Charm, when Professor Slughorn proudly exclaims that he always knew that “Kingsley boy would make it big someday”.

Or, and she’d rather not think about it, when she wakes up at four in the morning, her breathing ragged and a distinct impression of full lips on her throat and large, strong hands running over her body.

It’s a good thing that one has only happened twice.

 

“I beg your pardon, Horace,” says Professor McGonagall, entering the classroom where Slughorn is teaching the seventh year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs Potions. “I need to steal Miss Granger for a moment.”

“By all means, Minerva. Miss Granger, I will assign several feet worth of essays at the end of this lesson. If you’re unable to come back today, ask a fellow student for the instructions.”

Hermione is already on her way out the door. “Of course, Professor.”

The door has barely clicked shut behind her when she turns to McGonagall. “Professor, is something wrong? Has something happened?”

“No, Hermione, it’s nothing of the sort. But there is somebody who has requested a word with you. You may use the fireplace in my office to make a Floo call. I believe he’s expecting you.”

“Is it Harry? Ron?”

“No. It is Kingsley Shacklebolt. He says there is a job opportunity he would like to discuss with you.”

She doesn’t have much time to think about it, which blessedly means there is essentially no time for nerves to kick in. Within five minutes she is sitting at the Headmistress’ office, making a Floo call to “Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic”.

Kingsley’s face appears through the flames. “Hello, Hermione.”

“Kingsley. I hope everything’s okay?”

“It is, yes. I trust you’re well.”

“Very.” And if they don’t get to the point soon, Hermione decides, she is going to scream. “I’m sorry, but Professor McGonagall said you wanted to talk to me.”

“I do. Are you still interested in applying for a position at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?”

Her heart stops, then kicks into motion again. “Yes.”

“The new Head there, Arnold Higgins, has augmented the legal team. One of the new positions may interest you. Essentially, and sparing us both the bureaucratic terms for now, I can tell you that they’re looking for a person with advanced research skills, a sharp mind and a well-developed sense of patience. The position hasn’t been officially announced as of yet, but it’s a done deal. I took the liberty of recommending you to the recruiter for the spot.”

For a moment, she isn’t sure she can speak. “You did?”

“Yeah. I think it could be the right position for you.”

“Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

“‘Yes, I’m interested’ would be a good place to start.”

She laughs. “ _Yes_ , of course I’m interested.”

“Good. I’m fairly certain you’ll be contacted for an interview shortly. Polish your résumé, will you? Don’t make me look bad.”

“I won’t. Kingsley,” she hesitates. “It’s good to see you.”

He smiles. “Likewise. Good luck with your exams.”

 

Molly launches herself into Christmas planning sometime in mid-November. Hermione thinks it’s partly a self-reminder that the war is over, partly a way of doing something cheerful in her fallen son’s honour. It is to be the first celebration held at the Burrow since Fred’s death, and everyone tries to act just that little bit happier than they feel.

Molly recruits her before Hermione can even finish the sentence offering her help.

“This is the guest list,” she announces within a couple of days, unrolling two feet of parchment and thrusting them in Hermione’s face. “Can you make the cards, send them to their recipients?”

“Of course. I– ”

“The menu shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll cook, of course, and Bill will take care of the drinks.”

Hermione opens her mouth. “Mrs Weasley –”

Molly beats her to it again. “Fleur said she’d plan the decorations. I hope to convince George to make his special Charmed Mistletoe. He said he doesn’t have the time right now, but…” She trails off. Her face crumples.

“Molly,” Hermione takes her hand. “Are you okay?”

Stupid question, all right, but what else can she say?

“Of course, dear. I was just hoping–”

Hermione waits.

“Oh, all right. I was hoping this would help nudge George into a festive mood. Christmas has always been one of their favourite holidays, you see. Right after–”

“Halloween.” Hermione doesn’t ask who Molly means by “ _they”_. There is no need.

“Yes. I didn’t say anything then because, well, I could tell it was too soon, and I, I wasn’t ready either. But now… Hermione, I loved Fred with all my heart. I always will.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want anybody to forget him, ever. But I don’t want to lose the children I still have.”

“You won’t.”

“It feels like I already am. Sometimes it feels like I lost two sons in that battle, like George died when Fred did.”

“Molly,” Hermione hesitates. “A part of him did.”

Molly sighs, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Yes. I know it did.”

“It doesn’t mean he won’t ever be happy again. But– well, maybe it is too soon.”

“Would you talk to him? He might listen to you.”

Hermione doesn’t tell Molly that George and Fred only ever listened to her once – and then only when she threatened to tell their mother on them. She doesn’t have the heart to crush the hope in the other woman’s eyes. “Of course I will.”

 

“Higgins is keeping you busy, I see,” Kingsley remarks. Startled, Hermione looks up. “You’ve been writing non-stop for the past, oh, ten point five minutes,” he adds, making a show of looking at his watch.

She’s pretty sure he’s exaggerating greatly, but nevertheless, the idea of Kingsley watching her for that long paints a faint blush on her cheeks. “He is, but this isn’t Ministry-related. Molly is planning a Christmas party.”

“I know. I received my invitation yesterday.”

She doesn’t think it’d be wise to let him know she held his invitation in her hands for several seconds, hoping he would make it to the party so she’d get to see him in a casual environment – something she’s had precious few opportunities to do so far.

“Well, her guest list is longer than the International Constitution for Wizards and Witches,” she comments, grinning when he chuckles. “The list of things yet to be done is even longer than that. I promised I would help organize it, but I’m afraid I overestimated my speed. Skipping my lunch break and foregoing sleep is about the only way I’ll be able to make it in time.”

He gestures to the chair in front of her desk. “May I?”

“Please. Coffee?”

“Hmm.” Kingsley shakes his head as he takes a seat. “I’m trying to cut back. My stomach, it turns out, isn’t protected with an Unbreakable Charm. Who knew?” He wonders in mock amazement.

“Who indeed.” Hermione drums her fingers on the desk. “I don’t suppose the Minister for Magic can take ten minutes and help a lowly legal consultant from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“Are you joking? Paperwork is a way of life. I say bring it.”

 

Hermione walks out of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes with two fully loaded bags and a heavy heart.

Predictably enough, George has been hit the hardest by Fred’s death. He flat-out refused to leave his room for a week after the burial, ignoring his family’s desperate pleas to come out. Things started to get better eventually, but even now, six months later, his moods are dark just as frequently, if not more so, than they are light.

Convincing him to help organize this party just isn’t happening.

She broods for a moment, caught up in her own dark thoughts.

“Minister!” The shouted word starts her out of her reverie. Hermione spins around, squinting at the dozen reporters firing questions at a clearly annoyed Kingsley.

Well. Clearly to her. The only outward sign that he’s impatient is his (very slightly) clenched jaw.

She studies him for a moment, then shakes her head and prepares to walk past the reporters now that they’re busy with a bigger target. She stops dead in her tracks when she hears Kingsley’s words. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m pressed for time today. Miss Granger and I have an appointment.”

Wait.

What?

The correspondents all turn to her, wearing an expression on their faces that reminds Hermione distinctly of sharks within easy reach of blood. The thought has barely had time to form in her mind when they start hurling questions at her.

“Miss Granger!”

“Hermione! A word for our readers!”

“What is the nature of your relationship with Mr Shacklebolt?”

“What does Harry Potter think of your involvement with the Minister for Magic?

“There is no involvement except for friendship,” Kingsley puts in, and has the reporters whipping back to him. Smoothly, he walks past them and holds out his arm. Mutely, Hermione takes it.

“I’m going to kill you,” she grounds out, trying to tune out the shouted questions.

“Give it your best shot,” he invites, his tone aggravatingly amused. “I cast one hell of a Shield Charm.”

 

They end up Apparating to a café where she’s met Harry and Ron a couple of times. They try different places every week, the habit of keeping their plans flexible in order to make it hard for people to spot a routine too ingrained in all their minds to change it now. It’s come in handy, even now that it’s reporters tracking Harry’s every move instead of Death Eaters. It’s been a nice change, all in all.

Speaking of which.

“What was that?” She demands, punching his shoulder for good measure.

“A lucky escape.”

“ _Lucky_? We’ll be all over the _Daily Prophet_ in the morning!

Kingsley shrugs. “Not exactly a change in routine.”

“You’re the bloody Minister for Magic!”

“I’ve heard rumours.”

She grits her teeth together so forcefully, she’s surprised they don’t snap loose. “You know what I mean.”

“Hermione, I’m linked to a different woman every week. Witches, Muggles, even a vampire on one memorable occasion. People love to speculate about the Minister’s personal life. It gives them something to talk about at breakfast.”

“Precisely my point! I’ve been speculated about enough. You had no right to drag me back into the papers when I’ve only just dragged myself out.”

Kingsley is looking partially less smug. “It’ll die down next week.”

“Not soon enough! I’ve _been_ through this already. I know how it works. I now get to look forward to hate mail from perfect strangers who think they all know what kind of person I am. Oh, I can just see it,” she fumes, pacing. “A few letters congratulating me on my good luck, a handful of people informing me that you’re far out of my league and I shouldn’t get my hopes up, and loads more cursing me – literally – for playing with your heart.”

He frowns. “What the _hell_ are you talking about?”

“I told you. I’ve been through this before. Only, instead of the Minister for Magic, it was the Boy-Who-Lived and the most promising Quidditch player of the decade whose hearts I was carving open with my wand. Oh god,” she closes her eyes. “Molly will probably give me the cold shoulder for a month.”

“I still don’t – Oh.”

“Yes. _Oh_.”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“I haven’t. Merlin’s beard, Kingsley, what were you _thinking_?”

“I _believe_ I was thinking ‘get me the hell out of here before I hex somebody’,” he says dryly, drawing a reluctant chuckle from Hermione. “Hey. I really am sorry.”

She heaves a sigh. “I know. I’m probably overreacting, anyway. I survived Bellatrix Lestrange’s torture – hell, I survived Molly Weasley’s party planning,” she smiles a little when he tosses back his head and laughs. “At least so far.”

“My money’s on you,” he reaches out and rests his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think you’re overreacting, by the way. I– well, let’s just say I know what it’s like to be looked down upon by perfect strangers who all think they know who you are.”

She frowns up at him. “You’re a pureblood, an influential one.”

“I’m also a black man.”

“The wizarding world isn’t prejudiced against people of colour,” she says, but it comes out a question. Because it has just occurred to her that, even if it is, she might not know.

“No, it isn’t. Well,” he says with a shrug. “Not institutionally so, in any case. But I’ve spent some considerable time in the Muggle world.”

His undercover work as secretary to the Prime Minister springs to the forefront of her mind. “Oh. I forgot.”

Kingsley’s lips twist humourlessly. “I haven’t.”

She studies the way his jaw clenches, her fingers itching to reach out and offer comfort. “I – well, I have some time between errands. Do you want to grab a cup of tea?”

He does.

 

Hermione examines her reflection in the mirror. The deep purple robes fit her nicely, highlighting the darker strands of her hair. She caved earlier today and purchased a new bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion – not because her old one is empty, but because she has no idea where on earth it is. She hasn’t used it in almost two years.

She can see the speculation in Ginny’s eyes and the smug female look in Fleur’s. The men are, for the most part, oblivious. That’s okay with her.

There is only one man whom she wants to notice, after all.

“Hermione, would you mind getting the door?” Molly asks from the kitchen. With a jolt, Hermione realizes that somebody has been knocking on it for Merlin knows how long.

That kind of absentmindedness, she thinks viciously, would have left her a bleeding heap on the ground long before the end of the war.

“Of course, Molly. Just one second!” She calls out as she strides to the door.

Andromeda Tonks arrives first, with a bouncing Teddy on tow. Other Order members follow, then a few Rumanian friends of Charlie’s. Luna arrives hand in hand with Blaise Zabini – and Hermione doesn’t mind admitting that she never saw _that_ one coming. Neville and his grandmother argue all the way in to the Burrow.

And still Kingsley has yet to make an appearance.

“Looking for someone?” Ginny asks, clearly done with waiting for Hermione to come clean.

“Hmm? Oh, no. I was just thinking.”

“Sure you were. Do I know him?” There’s a pause. “Or her?”

“Well, I’m sure you know many people. Is there anyone in particular you’re referring to?”

Ginny makes a face. “It’s so much easier to annoy this kind of thing out of Ron.”

“Everything is easier to annoy out of Ron.”

“Truer words. Come _on_ , Hermione. Tell me. Please?”

Hermione bursts out laughing at the last word, lengthened by about four syllables. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Oh, _fine_. Be that way. But I do still have eyes in my head. They’re on to you now.”

She wants, very much, to laugh at her friend’s words. Except that Ginny is quite observant, not to mention scarily persistent, and might very well figure out what Hermione so wants to keep quiet.

_Evasive manoeuvre. Now._

“Harry,” She calls out to her friend, who’s currently laughing with Seamus, Dean and Neville. “Your girlfriend is threatening to keep her eyes on me. You’re clearly failing to engage her interest.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Harry excuses himself from the group and snatches Ginny’s hand. “Let’s dance.”

“Oh, my,” Ginny flutters her lashes. “Harry Potter wants to dance. I didn’t even have to point a wand to his head. This time.”

“It’s a one-time deal.”

“Hmm. I’ll take it.”

They glide off to the living room, modified into a dance floor. Hermione watches them – the way Harry’s arm slides around her waist, the way Ginny grins foolishly at him when he looks elsewhere. It does her heart good, to see them so happy.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Ginny’s mind isn’t focused on her anymore, either.

She walks from one room to the next, making sure that everything goes according to plan. She sees Molly and Arthur dancing, Fleur laughing with her sister Gabrielle and – her heart warms at this – George talking quietly with Angelina.

“Nice job,” a deep, gorgeous voice says behind her. Shivers run down her spine even as she spins around to face Kingsley.

“Thanks. I’m glad you could make it.”                                      

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he glances over at the room. “You weren’t joking when you said Molly went all out for this.”

“I think I wasn’t even exaggerating.”             

“I can see that. You look great,” he says, and it’s not exactly a declaration of love. It’s not even an expression of desire. But it fills her with a warm pleasure all the same.

“Thank you. So do you.” It is unquestionably true. The black dress robes envelop a body which she knows for a fact to be lean and tough. It’s too bad she can’t say how it would feel against hers – after all, she thinks wryly, the only time she felt his body pressed up against her she was wearing Harry’s.

Her imagination, however, has never been called into question and is more than happy to fill in the blanks.

“Hermione.” Kingsley’s tone is amused, and his expression makes her think this isn’t the first time he’s called her name.

“Hmm? Oh! I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

“As a matter of fact,” he says in that slow, maddeningly amused tone that always makes her want to smack him and kiss him. Not necessarily in that order. “I said, can a man eat anything around here? I was counting on some food I didn’t have to make myself.”

“Well, there is.” She opens her mouth, ready to point him towards the dining room, then closes it. She’s not sure where her next words come from, but they’re out before she can think them through. “Just how hungry are you?”

“Uh-oh,” his eyebrows shoot up. “A barter, is it? What do you want, Granger?”

“The answer to a mystery.” She hesitates for a moment, wondering if she’s about to mess things up monumentally. “Why did you decide to remain Minister?”

He looks at her, eyes glittering. “What brought this on?”

She doubts she can get away with the truth, which is _Because I want to know everything there is to know about you_. But she’s well aware she won’t be able to pull off a flip, casual answer. The stakes are much too high.

So she merely lifts a shoulder and says nothing.

Kingsley sighs. “Come on. Show me where to find the wine. I have a feeling I’m going to want alcohol for this.”

She nods and turns, only to stop dead in her tracks when she spots Ginny, eyes wide and gleeful, grinning from ear to ear as she watches them. Without bothering with discretion, she gives Hermione an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Hermione’s laughter is ripped out of her, surprised and loud and just a little hysterical.

“Did I miss the joke?”

“No. _Really_. Don’t worry about it.” Because she’s very much afraid it’s on her.

 

“You know, house-elves are talented at a great many things, but their wine is at the top of the list.”

“Uh-huh. That is one extremely long list. Too bad so few people appreciate it.”

He watches her over the rim of his glass, brows raised. “Ah, yes. That was you. I remember Remus mentioning it once.”

Her eyes narrow. “Remus mentioning _what_?”

“Your free-the-house-elf campaign. What was it called? Saliva?”

“S.P.E.W.,” she says through gritted teeth. “Oh no, Kingsley. _Please_ don’t tell me you own elves.”

“The ministerial house does,” he admits.

“Why? You’ve outlined several proposals for the improvement of their life conditions. You can’t possibly tell me that you believe they’re meant to be slaves.”

“I don’t. But, Hermione, centuries of brain-washing aren’t going to be wiped clean in the blink of an eye just because we say so. Forcing them to take clothes when they aren’t ready,” he says pointedly, “even more, when they so vehemently oppose to it, is nearly as bad as forcing them to remain enslaved. There is no magical, fix-it-all solution for this.”

It is something she has been forced to learn over the years, something that her organized, logical mind loathes to admit. But– “You’re right,” she acknowledges, tiredly, reluctantly. “There isn’t. But what are we supposed to do, then? Keep them in our service, continue to make them think that’s where they belong?”

He watches her steadily. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Goddamn it. I don’t know what to think anymore. We can’t keep on the way we’ve done over the past millennium, but we can’t wish that millennium away either, can we?”

“You know, a lot of wizards and witches, and a lot of elves – more than you would think at first glance – are wondering the same thing nowadays.”

She looks into his eyes, at the challenge there. “I’ll look into it.”

“You do that. As for your first question–” He trails off.

“I was half convinced you would go back to Magical Law Enforcement the second your three months were up,” Hermione says after a moment.

“I thought about it,” Kingsley admits. “Actually, dreamed about it is more like it. Telling myself that it was only for a limited period of time was the only thing that got me through that first endless string of political meetings and diplomatic dinners. Plus the paperwork. Oh _man_ , the paperwork. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of that fancy office and go back to my cubicle.”

“What happened?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t really know. It’s not that I woke up one day and realized just how meaningful this new platform could be – I’d known that all along. I guess I just… committed to it, you could say. I started making plans, drafting long-term projects. Projects that required me to stay put and see them through. All I know is that I woke up one morning and my first thought wasn’t “ _okay, only forty-seven days to go and I’ll be free”._ It was more along the lines of “ _oh crap, I’ve only got forty-seven days left to implement this decree_ ”. So I just,” he shrugs, a little helplessly. “Decided to stick around.

“Hermione?” He asks after a short pause, puzzled by the look she’s giving him. “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t answer him immediately. She _can’t_. For a moment, it’s all she can do to adjust to the dizzying, world-spinning realization that she is in love with him.

“Hermione,” Kingsley repeats, studying her worriedly.

“I– I’m okay”, she manages, though her throat feels like sandpaper. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

“Well, are you satisfied with the answer to your question, then?” He grins. “Did I earn this truly marvellous meal?”

“You did.” She sinks her nails into her palms to keep from reaching for him. “You really did.”

 

The Ministry terms the anniversary of Voldemort’s fall a national holiday. Celebrations are held in every corner of the U.K. Harry’s name is back on everybody’s lips, his schedule once again packed with public appearances.

The biggest function, surpassing even the Ministry’s, is held at Hogwarts. Hermione hasn’t been back to the school since her advanced graduation in December, so she’s delighted to go back, if only for an evening. A limited amount of people are invited to spend the night, too, and Hermione fully intends to make use of the opportunity.

She spots Kingsley, looking ridiculously attractive in his dress robes, and a smile blooms on her face. Before she can make her way over, she sees him turn to the beautiful woman standing next to him, clad in vibrant red robes, and laugh when she grins up at him and says something in his ear.

Her smile falters.

Stupid, she lectures herself. Just because she’s never met any of Kingsley’s dates before doesn’t mean that he doesn’t date at all. He’s a handsome man with a reputation for wit, intelligence and competence. She _knows_ how much he appeals to women. She knows it first-hand.

She watches him for a moment. It’s easy to recognize the intimacy in the way he smiles down at his date, in the way she rests her head on his shoulder affectionately.

Hermione looks away.

 

“Hello there.”

She pauses mid-sip, turning to the man who is smiling down at her. Her heart flutters – _again_ , dammit – as she carefully sips from her sparkling wine. “Hi, yourself. Enjoying your evening?”

“Absolutely. I haven’t been back since the re-inauguration ceremony. It’s encouraging to feel that Hogwarts is once again a happy place.”

It’s an odd way of phrasing it, she thinks. And completely appropriate,

“I know what you mean. It meant a lot to see it, to _feel_ it, when I came back for my N.E.W.Ts.”

“Really? Here I was thinking you wouldn’t have had time to see much but the library.”

“Ha ha.” She pauses, then forces the words out. “I saw your date.”

He watches her curiously. “Did you, now?”

“Mm-hmm. Just for a moment, when I arrived. You know, when you were standing right over there,” she gestures, and her heart twists when his eyes clear in acknowledgment. “She’s beautiful.”

Kingsley smiles. “I agree.”

“Have you two known each other long?”

“All our lives, it seems.”

It takes conscious effort to keep the smile in place. “Oh. That’s nice.”

“Unavoidable, actually.” Amusement sparks in his eyes. “That’s Rowena.”

Kingsley’s sister. Relief rushes through her even as she tries to disguise it. “The changeling?”

“I heard that,” Rowena points out, gliding towards them on mile-high shoes. “Is it my fault if the rest of my family can’t master a simple flick of the wrist? If they have the eye to hand coordination of a Kneazle?”

“Yeah, yeah. So says the changeling. Rowena, this is Hermione Granger. Hermione, my sister Rowena. She thinks she’s funny.”

“I am funny. Once again, it’s not my fault if your poorly developed sense of humour fails to grasp the true extent of my wit.” She turns to a grinning Hermione. “Hello. You don’t need to give me the background. You’re famous enough.”

“Occupational hazard of being one of Harry Potter’s best friends,” she replies, holding out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Rowena’s gaze flickers from Hermione to her brother. “Kingsley, love, I’m yearning for a glass of Firewhisky. Would you be so kind as to run off and fetch a couple of glasses for me and Hermione here?”

Kingsley frowns. “Since when do you drink Firewhisky?”

She waves a hand in dismissal. “Since I decided I’ve got a sudden craving for it.”

“Rowena–”

“Aren’t you just dying for some Firewhisky yourself, Hermione?” The message in Rowena’s eyes is loud and clear. _Say yes_. _I want a moment_. Under different circumstances, Hermione might refuse – if Kingsley comes back with Firewhisky, she might actually have to drink it –, but she _is_ rather curious, and she has a feeling that this woman, with her big brown eyes and spades of charm, might hold the answers to questions she hasn’t even thought of.

“I am,” she finally says. “I’d appreciate it if you could bring me a glass.”

Kingsley sends his sister one cool, warning glance and stalks off.

“You’re wondering why I got rid of him,” Rowena says, grinning. “The answer to that, Hermione, is because, in the way of younger sisters the world over, I happen to be terribly nosy about my big brother’s life and Merlin knows I’m a first-rate nagger.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do. Allow me to explain. Kingsley has always been a worrier. He was only eighteen when our parents died, you see. My sister and I were eleven and thirteen. There were no other relatives save for my great-grandmother and she was far too old to take care of two children. He could’ve placed us in foster care, at least until he was a few years older, but…”

“You were his baby sisters,” Hermione says softly. “His responsibility.”

“Exactly,” Pleased, Rowena continues. “It was almost ten years before he felt we were old enough for him to relax some, and by then that sleazy worm was already crawling his way back.”

Under any other circumstances, Hermione would take immense pleasure in hearing somebody refer to Voldemort as “that sleazy worm”. Right now, however, she’s too enthralled by the story she’s hearing to give it more than a passing thought. But– “Rowena, I can’t pretend I don’t want to know this, but maybe Kingsley won’t appreciate your telling me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m simply telling you the story of my life – my brother just happens to be an important part of it.” She smirks lightly, almost imperceptibly, and presses on. “Kingsley has never had a chance to be carefree. Well,” Rowena laughs a little before amending. “Not since he was eighteen, anyway. He was nearly as big a hell raiser as James Potter and company back in the day. Minerva was constantly owling our parents when he was at school.”

Hermione can feel her lips curve. It should be hard to picture the imperturbable Kingsley Shacklebolt as a troublemaker. Yet she can easily imagine him as a young boy with a crooked grin and mischief in his eyes.

Her heart twists, both for the man that boy became and for the woman standing in front of her. “I’m sorry. Really,” she reaches out, squeezes Rowena’s hand. “I can only imagine how hard it must have been, losing both your parents so young.”

“It wasn’t a stroll down the beach,” and recalling those heart-wrenching months, Rowena’s eyes sting. “But we survived. Julia and I had a happy childhood, Hermione, even after our parents died. Kingsley saw to that.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’ve waited a long time to see my brother happy. I’ve watched him relax these past few months, little by little. It puzzled me,” she admits cheerfully. “Now that the fate of all of wizarding Britain lay on his shoulders, I expected him to wound up even tighter. And he did, the first little while. But then something happened. Or rather,” she fixes Hermione with the same steady, unblinking stare of her brother’s. “Someone.”

Hermione takes a moment to collect herself. “Are you saying he has feelings for me?”

“I am saying no such thing. If he does, it’s up to him to decide if he wants you to know about them. What I _am_ saying is that he’s been looser in the past several months. Happier, more relaxed. I believe you’ve played a significant role in that.”

“What do you want me to do with that, Rowena?” She asks after a pause.

“You have a reputation for being the cleverest witch of your age. Well, then – prove it. Figure it out.”

 

Rowena’s words resonate in her mind. It’s been an hour since Kingsley came back with two glasses of Firewhisky (a quick vanishing charm took care of that), since his sister threw down the gauntlet and left Hermione to decide if she’s ready to pick it right back up. A challenge issued with a quick grin and a defiant tilt of the head.

Like brother, like sister, she supposes.

The festivities haven’t dwindled. She can hear people talking even as she walks out of the castle and veers toward the gardens, hoping for a moment of solitude and a chance to decide what on earth she’s going to do. Can she risk her relationship with Kingsley, that miraculous friendship that sprung up on her, on the off chance for something more? Can she deal with the inevitable repercussions if she risks it and he doesn’t feel the same way?

She just doesn’t know it.

Hermione stops when she hears footsteps behind her. She doesn’t turn to see who’s had the same idea that she did and searched for a respite in the gardens. There is no need.

She can feel him.

“Hello, Kingsley.”

For once, she’s managed to take him by surprise. His head snaps up. “Hermione. Needed a break, too, did you?”

“Hmm,” she nods. “It’s too loud in the castle. Not exactly conducive to proper thinking. What’s your excuse?”

“Too many people want a quick word with the Minister for Magic. Or, well,” he makes a face. The gesture is so startlingly, wonderfully boyish that Hermione’s eyes sting. “So they all claim. So far, amazingly enough, nobody’s made true on the ‘quick’ part.”

She tries to laugh. Instead, the sound that comes out of her throat is more like a sob.

Kingsley’s expression changes from amused annoyance to concern. “Hermione? Are you all right?” She can only shake her head in silence. He walks up to her, hands landing on her shoulders and rubbing reassuringly. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

She grabs him by the front of his robes and yanks. Hard. Taken off balance, Kingsley’s hands come to rest on her hips, and before he can move, Hermione is already covering his mouth with hers.

He freezes, hands tightening on her out of sheer surprise. Hermione nips at his bottom lip, sliding her hands up his stomach and chest before they settle on his shoulders. Standing on tiptoe, she digs her fingers into his flesh and presses urgent, open-mouthed kisses to his lips.

Kingsley pulls back, his eyes wide and stunned. Hermione stomps down on the urge to stammer out an apology and meets his gaze instead, as levelly as she can manage now that it feels like a horde of wild dragons has taken up residence in her belly. The clock ticks away the seconds – ten, twenty, half a minute goes by and still he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. Bravery deserts her.

“Kingsley, I–”

He wrenches her flat against him, enveloping her waist with one arm and fisting a hand into her hair. His mouth is on hers, hard and hot and demanding. He doesn’t bother to ease her into deepening the kiss, simply slides his tongue against hers when her lips part, groaning into her mouth as her arms come up to circle his neck, fingers pressed tightly to his nape. The hand that isn’t currently buried in the brown mass that is her hair skims up and down her side, thumb grazing the underside of her breast, tightening his hold on her when she shivers.

“Kingsley,” she murmurs against his lips. “Kingsley.”

“Mmm?”

“People m– _Oh_ ,” her head tilts to the side when his mouth latches on to her neck. “Oh god. Wait,” she presses a hand to his chest. “Wait just a second. People might see.”

He stares at her as though she’s speaking an alien language. “What?”

“We’re in Hogwarts territory. Anyone could see.”

Confusion, understanding and shock all leap into his eyes in quick succession. “Oh. Oh damn. Hermione, I’m sorry.”

She studies him from beneath her lashes, her heart beating a rapid rumba in her chest. “You’re sorry?”

“Of course I am. I didn’t mean to– well, I mean, I did, but–”

She takes a step back, shivering when the warmth of his arms around her disappears and she’s hit by the cool air instead. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I– Well, because– Merlin. I’m not entirely sure.”

“Hmm.” Hermione nods to herself. Decision made, she takes a shallow breath. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight? You can figure it out in the morning.”

He actually takes a step in retreat. “Hermione.”

“Yes, Kingsley?”

“Do you realize what you’re asking?”

Her eyes narrow. Then, all of a sudden, the situation strikes her as irresistibly funny. She tosses her head back and laughs. “No, Kingsley, I don’t realize what I’m asking. You see, I make it a habit of inviting men over to my flat without a concrete reason. Today it’s you, yesterday it was that nice Muggle man I struck up a conversation with at the supermarket.”

Kingsley winces. “I may have phrased that one poorly.”

Absolutely delighted with him, Hermione reaches up to link her hands behind his neck. “Fortunately for you, I understood just what you meant. Yes, I do realize what I’m asking. It’s something I’ve wanted for over a year, something that I just didn’t have the courage to ask for before.” She has to stop, press a hand to her stomach. Not because she has doubts, but because she’s seen the answer in his eyes and she needs a moment to cope with the thrill of that. “Come home with me. Make love with me, spend the night in my bed. If it makes you feel any better, I promise not to propose in the morning.”

He rests his forehead on hers. “Your negotiation skills leave much to be desired, Granger.”

“Do they, now?”

“Mm-hmm. You’re supposed to start the bargain by offering less than what the other person is willing to take and you're willing to give, _then_ work your way up to the real deal. You don’t start with exactly what your opponent wanted in the first place.”

She smiles up at him, brilliantly. “You do if that’s exactly what you've wanted as well."


End file.
